We sat in her blue Jetta smoking our favorite
cigarettes and talking about our least favorite
things. Her very least was me.
I knew the obvious answer was her
but instead I mentioned the spider
spooling about its art above the speedometer.
She said the psychic told her I’d say that.
I flicked the used butt however
it hit the drivers-side window
and landed near the pedal.
I stomped furiously.
The psychic said that would happen
She dropped down the visor mirror and
started painting her face, glancing at me
every so often with veiny-brown eyes.
She checked her phone idly.
She did that thing where she whips her
hair back over the headrest dramatically.
Of course this week her hair is jet black again,
I didn’t have to ask Miss Cleo about that.
She said the psychic (mind you in assured,
relayed speech…mind you looking
off towards the ether) was right about everything.
That I was a confused boy mixing potions
of love and and strong like.
That she thought about women sometimes.
That the demon who confronted us
wasn’t worried about my bible talk.
That I’d end up like Father Damien,
when her wraps came loose.
I said a number of things back at her.
The psychic knew, down to third cigarette I
was puffing at.
In a fury, I scooped up the web and the little
spider and put it all in my mouth.
She said the psychic said that I would
be in a fury and eat not only the spider
but also the web and that it would be gross.
Hearing enough, I turned into a gigantic spider
awkwardly crumpled in the front seat,
trying not to poison the girl next to me.
If spiders could talk, I would’ve asked
if her precious soothsayer mentioned my
She said that this is exactly why she went
to the psychic in the first place, because
I was always doing this sort of thing.
Erric Emerson’s work has been featured in Neon, Collage, and Control. He is currently the poetry editor for Duende literary journal, the inaugural issue of which will go live in October 2014.
Artwork: Odilon Redon, “The Crying Spider,” 1881.